


as long as you love me so

by flowersinxeirhair



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Holidays, M/M, Snowed In, cheese and cliches, im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersinxeirhair/pseuds/flowersinxeirhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prompt I chose was: "Snowed in, IN THE LIBRARY"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Combeferre disappeared behind another bookshelf, and Courfeyrac only allowed himself a very brief squeal before going to pull his hat, scarf and gloves back on.<br/>He was adjusting his curls under the hat, when he heard a faint rattle. His brow furrowed in confusion when the rattles grew louder, accompanied by harsh whisper of something he couldn’t quite make out.<br/>“Everything okay?” he called tentatively after listening to the rattling continue for a minute.<br/>“FUCK.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	as long as you love me so

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bonjaminfranklin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bonjaminfranklin).



> im so sorry I literally only just registered that you said library and not bookshop
> 
> this is completely insane i wrote it in like two days i'm sorry
> 
>  
> 
> for the wonderful bonjaminfranklin on tumblr, who does not have an ao3! happy holidays bonnie have a wonderful time :) xx

 

In retrospect, Courfeyrac really ought to have thought this through.

But he’d completely forgotten to buy Joly the book he’d planned to, and, alright, he was cutting it a little fine (what with only two more days until their annual gift exchange), but he couldn’t very well show up empty-handed.

 So he’d taken a look out his window, at the city that was barely visible through the thick snow, and refused to be intimidated.

 He tugged a bobble hat over his curls, wrapped a scarf around his neck twenty times and pulled on his fuzziest pair of gloves before arming himself with snow boots and a thick, warm coat.

 He stood in front of his door, staring it down for a long minute, psyching himself up for the cold that was about to slap him in the face. He drew a long breath before turning the handle and braving the storm.

 On the plus side, he figured, no cars were dumb enough to drive down the ice-rink roads, so when Courfeyrac began to lose the ability to discern road from pavement, he was in no real danger.

 There was a sense of solidarity between him and the others on the street who were bundled up against the cold; a prominent bond of last-minute shoppers sharing knowing nods of understanding.

 He was practically wading through snow, but thoughts of Joly going this holiday book-less kept him walking strong. At some point along the way he lost feeling in his nose and fingertips, and wasn’t registering the fact that he was moving anymore, walking on autopilot and relying on muscle memory to take him to the bookshop rather than any brain power.

 The bookshop in the distance was like a beacon, and he had never been more glad to see the tiny brick building.

 

 

oOo

 

 

“Excuse me, sir?”

 Courfeyrac looked up with a start, almost dropping the book in his hands in his shock at being pulled from his reverie. He’d been tucked up on the floor, leaning against a bookcase and built himself a sort of fort out of books without realising. He’d found and bought Joly’s book within a matter of minutes in the store- the small plastic shopping bag was resting at his side – but even the notion of heading back out the storm was menacing to say the least. So he’d decided to stay a little longer. Browse a while.

 Apparently he’d gotten a little carried away.

 He looked up at the man addressing him, ready to apologise for making a mess, but the words died on his tongue.

 “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m just about to close up,” he said slowly, when it became apparent Courfeyrac wasn’t about to say something any time soon.

 That seemed to wake Courfeyrac somewhat. He glanced down at his watch, babbling, “Oh, gosh, really? Woah, sorry, I completely lost track of time, I’ll just put all this back-”

 “It’s no worries, sir, I’ll sort it out in the morning,” Adorable Bookkeeper smiled. “You probably ought to get on your way before this storm gets any worse.”

 And, sure enough, as Courfeyrac looked out the window, snow was coming down thicker than ever, so much so that he could hardly make out the diner across the street, and the winds were audible even from inside the comfortable bookshop.

 "Yeah, woah. I mean, uh- thank you, that is,” Courfeyrac faltered over his words, trying on a bright smile to make up for it.

 Adorable Bookkeeper’s laugh was as warm as the hand he offered to help Courfeyrac up. He was far stronger than Courfeyrac had anticipated, and went stumbling forwards as he was hauled to his feet, colliding chest-to-chest with—Combeferre, the name tag said Combeferre.

 “Um,” Courfeyrac began eloquently, his hand still clasping Combeferre’s.

 Combeferre had turned a delicious shade of red, and Courfeyrac had a most intimate view of it.

 “I’ll just. Get the door.” he stammered after a long moment, wide eyes blinking at Courfeyrac from behind thick glasses.

 Courfeyrac cleared his throat and nodded slightly. “Right,” he smiled, stepping away reluctantly.

Combeferre disappeared behind another bookshelf, and Courfeyrac only allowed himself a very brief squeal before going to pull his hat, scarf and gloves back on.

 He was adjusting his curls under the hat, when he heard a faint rattle. His brow furrowed in confusion when the rattles grew louder, accompanied by harsh whisper of something he couldn’t quite make out.

 “Everything okay?” he called tentatively after listening to the rattling continue for a minute.

“FUCK.”

 

 

oOo

 

 

“Snowed _in?_ ” Courfeyrac echoed, eyes widening. “For how long?”

 Combeferre gave him a helpless look. “Well, I don’t know. The door’s frozen shut and the snow’s up to your knees out there; there won’t be any getting out for at least a good few hours.”

 Courfeyrac must have done something frustrated with his face, because Combeferre sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m sorry, but there’s really nothing I can do.”

 Courfeyrac exhaled slowly through his nose and tugged off his hat again. “Of course there’s not. Don’t worry about it.”

 They stayed there for a while, neither of them saying or doing a thing, just breathing heavily in the quiet and taking in the situation.

 “I’m going to make some tea,” Combeferre murmured eventually.

 The bookshop’s back room was as cosy as the storefront, packed tight with over-stuffed armchairs and beanbags. A coat stand stood in the corner, and there was a small countertop in the corner that housed a kettle and a microwave that looked like it had seen better days.

 “Looks like we’re going to be stuck together a while,” Courfeyrac stated unnecessarily as he accepted his mug of tea with a warm smile. “So, hi, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Courfeyrac.”

 “Combeferre,” Combeferre answered over the rim of his mug.

 Courfeyrac shifted on the armchair, crossing his legs underneath him and curling both hands around the warm ceramic and sighing heavily. Combeferre was the first to break the silence, his back to Courfeyrac as he fixed himself a hot drink of his own.

 “So we’re going to be here a while.”

 “Looks like.”

 “God, that storm sure is wild, huh?”

 “Are we really going to talk about the weather?” Courfeyrac asked, amused, and quirked a brow at Courf.

 "Alright, smartass, what do you want to talk about?” Combeferre rolled his eyes.

Courfeyrac made a thoughtful noise as he stirred milk into mug, leaning back against the counter. “Well, if we’re stuck together for what’s looking to be the night, we perhaps ought to know at least a little about each other.”

Combeferre pulled a face.

“What?” Courfeyrac asked. “You don’t like that idea?”

Combeferre’s grimace melted into something of a mildly disapproving lip curl, and he sighed heavily before beginning. “It’s just the whole… ‘tell me about yourself’ schtick is always so uncomfortable. It’s like, you can never think of what the hell to say to that because no one is really that two-dimensional that they can just say ‘My name’s Peter and I like One Direction’, and everyone is far too wary of new people to say ‘My name’s Peter and I listen to One Direction because it gives me a sense of fulfilment so that I don’t lose myself and do something stupid’, you know?”

And, shit. Combeferre was eloquent and expressive and beautiful and Courfeyrac had no words. No words except maybe “marry me”, but that could make thing very weird indeed. Especially since neither could escape the other’s company for God only knew how long.

So, instead he settled on, “Is this your way of telling me you listen to One Direction to feel fulfilled?” and Combeferre choked on his tea laughing.

“I’m just saying. That’s a shitty conversation starter,” Combeferre finished once he was no longer at risk of asphyxiation.

“But I do want to get to know you,” Courfeyrac said firmly. “For all I know, this bookshop could be a side business to keep up your secret identity so no one discovers your secret underground fight club.” He gasped dramatically, “I bet this storefront is all just a huge set, and if you push the third copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ to the back of the shelf it’ll open up onto a boxing ring.”

“Oh my God,” Combeferre chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I pride myself on it,” he grinned in response.

“Swear to God, this is just a bookshop,” Combeferre matched his smile brightly.

“I still want to get to know you.” Courfeyrac hummed in thought.

“And I, you,” Combeferre agreed, “But just parroting random facts about each of our lives to one another in turn sounds frankly hellish."

Courfeyrac barked a laugh, but quickly retreated into deep thought. It barely took a minute for an idea to strike him.

“What about twenty questions?”

Combeferre arched a brow. “What, like, animal, vegetable, mineral?”

Courfeyrac waved him off, sitting forward in his seat. “No, I mean, we each get twenty questions each; rapid-fire; no time for hesitations or polite “that’s nice”s in between. Anything we each want to know, but if either of find a question too invasive or uncomfortable, you can pass it up, and ask your question.”

Slowly, Combeferre nods.

“That could work.”

“Great!” Courfeyrac beams. “I’ll start.”

 

 

oOo

 

 

Within two hours, it became as though Combeferre and Courfeyrac had known each other their whole lives.

Combeferre, Courfeyrac learned, was working his hardest to save the world every way he could.  Not only was he studying medicine (because “science is really fucking cool” and he was determined to save lives), he was also a part of a student activist group, regularly taking part in protests and raising awareness and tolerance.

He was also very smart, very well-spoken, and had very nice hands. (“Piano lessons,” he’d explained with a grimace, “My mother was a very determined woman.”)

He also had a ridiculous affinity for tea, and Courfeyrac had drunk more than enough of it for a lifetime. He’d been fed multiple herbal teas- peppermint, lemon and ginger, green tea, green tea with peach, something made out of fucking tree bark- and declared that they all tasted like the same hot water with leaf, much to Combeferre’s horror.

Sometime around his seventh cup, Courfeyrac had insisted they put music on. Something about the ever decreasing temperature and friendly atmosphere had called for the warm familiarity of chirpy Christmas songs, and Courfeyrac’s iPod had been plugged into a dock and was going strong for nearly an hour. During said hour, they’d had precisely fourteen conversations solely about Harry Potter, five more cups of tea before Courfeyrac had declared himself Tea’d Out, and two games of hide and seek. Combeferre had been impressed at Courfeyrac’s ability to fit into small spaces, and Courfeyrac had been impressed at Combeferre’s knowledge of the layout of the bookshop, and all its hiding places. Maybe the hidden fight club idea hadn’t been all that implausible.

At some point, Courfeyrac had wondered aloud how long he could do a handstand for, and Combeferre- wonderful, smart, dorky Combeferre, bless his cotton socks- had offered to time him.

Which brought them here, Courfeyrac upside down against a bookcase, with a man who really ought to be a stranger stood beside him, humming _Rockin Around the Christmas Tree_ as he kept an eye on his watch.

It had been a very odd day.

Suddenly, the song changed, and Courfeyrac was taken so off-guard that he fell over himself, collapsing in a heap on the rough carpet.

Combeferre snorted a laugh and remarked, “One minute twenty four seconds.”

“No,  no- shhh, this is the greatest Christmas song of all time,” Courfeyrac insisted.

Combeferre listened a moment, and upon recognising the song, pulled an unimpressed face. “Really?” he asked disbelievingly, “It’s _Buble_.”

“Ferre,” Courfeyrac said solemnly, as he pulled himself up to his feet. “Do you have a problem with the Christmas Song God?”

Combeferre barked a laugh at that, and folded his arms over his chest. “Not in particular, I just don’t think it’s as good as the original. You can’t really dance to this.”

Courfeyrac’s heart did something irregular in his chest, and his voice was somewhat strained as he asked, “You dance?”

“I mean, not officially or anything,” Combeferre said quickly, “Mum made me take lessons as a kid.”

“As well as piano?”

“As well as piano, football, cookery, hockey and singing, yes.” Combeferre grimaced.

Courfeyrac whistled lowly, arching a brow. “ _Sheesh_.”

Combeferre shrugged. “She just wanted me to figure things out, I suppose.”

“And did you figure out dancing?”

Combeferre made a noncommittal sound, and Courfeyrac took that as a yes, extending his hands. “Well, now you have to show me your dancing prowess.”

Combeferre looked down at Courfeyrac’s hands and arched his brows, opening his mouth to object, Courfeyrac could see it in his eyes. So, before Combeferre had time to protest, he grabbed his hands and pulled him forwards.

“Go on, then,” he chirped, “How does this work?”

Combeferre shook his head fondly and Courfeyrac caught the beginning of a small smile creeping over his face before he cleared his throat and guided Courf’s hands into the correct position.

“And I guess this version is more of a waltz sort of style than the original, which is weird as hell. Mariah Carey sings it like you should be dancing around your kitchen making cookies.”

“Stop grumbling, old man,” Courfeyrac nudged him gently. “Come on. Lead me.”

Combeferre laughed his warm laugh that made Courfeyrac melt, and slowly, they were moving, swaying, stepping to the music. It was easy to be led by Combeferre, Courfeyrac found. His hand was firm and large at the small of his back, and, God, he was strong.

Courfeyrac was singing along softly before he noticed himself doing so, and he had never felt more at home.

Buble’s voice from the small speakers grew to a dramatic crescendo as the end neared, and Combeferre spun Courfeyrac in his arms, which Courfeyrac had not anticipated, and stumbled to a halt with both hands on Combeferre’s chest to steady himself.

The snow was still falling thick outside the window, a fact which neither of them noticed as Combeferre kept swaying gently to the softening closing notes of the song, both his hands settled on Courfeyrac’s waist firmly, keeping him close.  
  
One or both of them leaned in, and Courfeyrac made a soft sound against Combeferre’s lips, barely audible over the sound of the closing notes of the song, the wild winds outside, and his own heartbeat.

 

 


End file.
